


Blackmail Material

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3416486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Arthur grudgingly turns up on Francis' doorstep in nothing but a pair of sharp stilettos and a carefully-placed ribbon one cold night, and Francis demands an explanation before letting him in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackmail Material

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of oldfic from my tumblr. Now comes with some beautifully silly fanart: [here](http://pillowpals.tumblr.com/post/40243394389).

“Not that I am _complaining_ that you decide to turn up on my doorstep in nothing but what is basically a pretty bow and a pair of stilettos,” Francis says, leaning against the lintel of his front door and ignoring the green-eyed _glare_ being directed at him from the very sparsely-dressed ‘gentleman’ on his doorstep, “but I really must ask: _one,_ how on earth did you get through my _beautiful_ city dressed like that without being arrested for public indecency; and _two -”_

_“Get_ on _with it,”_ Arthur hisses at him, glowers some more when all Francis does is grin. Arthur is very lucky that it is a mild night; had the weather forecast been accurate the poor man would’ve looked a lot more _blue,_ naked and ankle-deep in snow. (Let it never be said that _nothing_ in France is kind to the English.)

“And _two,_ ” Francis repeats, casually raking his gaze across the wonderful expanse of skin Arthur is unusually (unusual, since the man appears to be mostly-to-fully sober) showing, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Arthur shifts from foot to foot (keeping a hand on his lovely bow, alas, so that all R-rated areas are somewhat covered). It is really quite admirable that he can keep his balance on such high heels (after _all_ these years) – Francis is unaccustomed to having to tilt his head to look _up_ to tease his dearest rival.

At least the heels do nice things for Arthur’s legs.

“I was in Amsterdam,” says Arthur. And flushes.

“Amsterdam,” says Francis. And doesn’t get it.

“Yes, _Amsterdam,_ ” says Arthur, and then sighs when Francis does nothing but look at him expectantly. And then appeals to Francis’ better nature, wherever it lies buried under layers and layers of amusement and French bedevilry. “Look – can we continue this discussion inside?”

“As soon as you tell me about Amsterdam _._ ”

“It’s bloody freezing out here!”

“So tell me _quickly._ ”

Arthur _growls –_ but Francis just smiles at him, perfectly pleasant, and perfectly blocking his own doorway.

_“Fine,”_ Arthur snaps in that way he has, saying one thing and meaning _I will kill you as soon as I get the right opportunity._ Draws himself up, head up, shoulders back, and clothing himself in pride (since the rest of his wardrobe is so conspicuously lacking). “I was in Amsterdam – with Gilbert, since his brother’s temporarily forbidden us from Berlin. And we were drunk. And I may have passed-out. And when I woke up I was no longer drunk, and no longer in the clothing I remember passing-out in.”

It sounds like Arthur. “And Gilbert?”

_“_ _Dead_ when I see him next,” Arthur promises, beautifully vicious.

Francis believes him. “And you ended up here…how?” Francis’ home is…far enough away from Amsterdam for the question to have merit, even for a Nation. “Or perhaps _why_ would be the better question.”

“Missed my ferry due to missing my passport. So I walked.” Arthur shrugs – and then recalls why shrugging is bad, and readjusts his bow again. Prude.

“…And you couldn’t go to your embassy in the Netherlands?”

Horror. “Dressed like _this?_ ”

One day, Arthur’s pride will kill him. Again. Francis tries another sensible suggestion. “Or stop off to see Marie, to see if she could provide you something to wear? Belgium _is_ between here and Amsterdam, you know, and that lovely lady _is,_ for some strange, unfathomable reason, remarkably fond of you -”

“ _Marie,_ ” Arthur says, all wounded eyes and wounded dignity at the _thought_ of the woman being involved in his current woeful situation, “would _laugh_ at me.”

“And you think _I_ wouldn’t?” Francis _has_ laughed already; he laughed when he first opened his door to see Arthur dressed so scantily and looking so forlorn on his doorstep.

Arthur glares at him again. “I have blackmail against _you_.”

“That will not stop the image of you standing pathetically on my doorstep wearing nought but a _ribbon_ from being burned forever into my heart.”

“I could gouge it out for you, if you’d like,” Arthur offers, very genial. Very sweetly pissed-off. “These fucking heels I’m wearing were named after knives for _a sodding reason._ ”

“ _Do_ come inside,” says Francis, nudges his door open a little further so Arthur can squeeze past him, into the warmth of Francis’ home.

Which Arthur does immediately, too cold, it seems, in this case, to threaten Francis’ life any further.

Francis just sighs, and shuts his door to the night air. Calls after his guest, who is already padding his way towards Francis’ bedroom to steal something to wear. “And do _try_ not to get your naked posterior stuck to any of my leather furniture.”

Continuing the spirit of friendship inspired by such a request, Arthur offers to shove his heels up Francis’ arse.


End file.
